


Pattern

by werebear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fic of Fic, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extra scene inspired by He Who Must Not Be Normal, by lettered. </p>
<p>Meant as a sort of cut scene, so you should definitely go read the other one first. Go ahead. I'll wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Who Must Not Be Normal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104020) by [lettered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered). 



_Original:_

_It became a pattern, eating and shagging. The shagging was usually hurried and quick, though always spectacular. Sometimes Potter still couldn’t keep it up long enough to fuck him, but he seemed to want to—one time when it happened he fucked Draco with his fingers for so long that tears were leaking out of Draco’s eyes by the time he finally came. He came so hard he couldn’t see for nearly a whole minute, but when he opened his eyes it was to find Potter sucking come out of Draco’s jumper._

* * *

 

Sometimes Potter still couldn’t keep it up long enough to fuck him, but he seemed to want to. Like one late afternoon.

Draco had finally bought lube the evening before. It made sense, didn’t it, he told himself, as he counted out the Muggle money at the Boots down the next street from his flat. Potter kept coming over, for now, and it was silly to keep using the oil from the kitchen. It wasn’t like it would go to waste, or go bad, even if Potter decided tomorrow that that was enough. It wasn’t a big deal, it didn’t cost that much anyway. And it wasn’t going to jinx things, he thought, walking home, his shoulders hunched up near his ears even though it wasn’t cold out. That was just stupid.

Still, when he got home he tossed the small plastic bag on the coffee table in the sitting room. It was all stupid, and if it didn’t make any difference either way, which it didn’t, then maybe he’d just take it back in the morning before work. He stalked off to the bedroom without thinking about it further.

It was still there the next afternoon when Potter showed up at the door, a little after Draco arrived home. Draco was sitting on the ratty couch, brushing Aloysius. He tried to do that, once or twice a week; cleaning spells spooked the cat too much, and besides, it was soothing, stroking and brushing the warm speckled brown fur, feeling his rattling purr. Draco liked to think that maybe the brushing cut back on all the shedding hair, but he knew he was probably fooling himself.

He had just noticed the Boots bag on the table and frowned when there was a knock on the door. He knew immediately that it was Potter, and since when could he tell Potter’s knock from anyone else’s? Maybe he was wrong. But Aloysius was hard to catch, and Draco called, not too loudly, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Harry.”

He didn’t want to stop brushing the cat, so he said, “Come on, then.”

Potter opened the door, slowly, peering in, then smiled at the sight of Aloysius in Draco’s lap. He was always ridiculous about the beast.

Draco kept on brushing. He wasn’t going to let Potter interrupt him, he wasn’t going to let him change his routine, make him do anything different. Not much anyway, he thought, looking again at the bag on the table.

“Close the door already, Potter.” He’d let the cat out if he wasn’t more careful.

Potter did, then sat gingerly down on the other end of the couch, not too close – and saw the tube in the bag.

“Oh, hey,” Potter said, poking the bag with one finger, peeking into it. He sounded pleased, and that corner of his mouth twitched up as he looked up into Draco’s face.

Draco avoided his eyes. Potter had never complained about using the oil, had never suggested anything else, but he’d probably been rolling his eyes internally every time. This  _did_ make more sense – but Draco didn’t have to watch him smirk about it.

The crinkle of the bag, and Potter’s movement, seemed to bother Aloysius. He stopped purring, and started to move – Draco tried, for one ill-advised moment, to hold him, and of course got scratched for his trouble. The tortoiseshell disappeared back toward the bedroom, and Draco sighed and got up, stepping away from the couch. He put the cat brush back in its drawer and unbuttoned his cuff, pulled back his jumper and shirt sleeve. It was mostly his left hand, though there was a faint welt on his upper arm as well. The actual scratches were beaded with red, already puffing up a little, itching. He debated whether it was even worth a healing spell.

“Are you all right? I could help,” Potter offered, suddenly, quietly, just behind Draco. He startled; he hadn’t even heard him getting off the creaky couch. Potter put a hand, a hot, hot hand, onto Draco’s left arm, onto his bare skin.

“I don’t need your help, Potter,” Draco snapped, shaking him off more roughly than he really meant. His nerves felt stretched, twanging. He could feel Potter’s unnatural warmth, at his back, radiating like a space heater, making the skin on his neck prickle. Was it worse even than usual? What the bloody hell was wrong with him, anyway?

“Okay. I was just….” Potter took a step back, and he had that lost look again, and for some reason it made Draco’s throat close up in frustration, close so tight that he couldn’t swallow past it, he couldn’t even speak.

He couldn’t stand it, not today, couldn’t stand to see Potter looking that way, the way his eyes dimmed, looking down, the angle of his shoulders slumping and his hands hanging like he couldn’t think of what to do with them. He looked… he looked like he was about to start talking to himself again, and Draco couldn’t handle that again, not right now.

So he turned and grabbed Potter, snogged him, hard, so hard their teeth knocked together, and pushed him backwards. They managed to avoid tripping over the coffee table, but missed the edge of the couch, and fell hard on their arses onto the floor.

Potter didn’t seem to care. He leaned against the arm of the couch, his hands clutched on the front of Draco’s blue jumper, pulling him close; his mouth was hot and open to Draco’s tongue. Draco wrestled with Potter’s belt, got his trousers and pants open. He pushed them down past his arse, running his hands over all that lovely skin. He was straddling Potter’s lap, and Potter was making small sounds that just made Draco  _crazy,_ but… but Potter’s cock was barely hard at all, in spite of his feverishly flushed cheeks, in spite of Draco’s hand on him. Draco broke off the snogging for a moment, and Potter gasped, leaning his forehead against Draco’s.

“Sorry, Draco, I—“ Potter was mumbling, looking down, and it wasn’t the first time, it didn’t matter, and Draco shook his head, put his fingers over Potter’s lips, and opened his mouth, but—he couldn’t say anything.

He couldn’t talk, why couldn’t he  _talk_ ; the one thing he could always do. His throat was thick and closed, and he knew, he knew that this was what Potter needed, maybe he could fix it if he could just say something, but his voice wouldn’t come out, it  _wouldn’t_ . Like his vocal cords had just suddenly  _failed_ . His stomach knotted.

He couldn’t breathe; he felt almost paralyzed, all his limbs loose and unresponsive. The scratches on his hand itched, and his arm itched, and he made an abortive attempt to pull back and climb off Potter’s lap. But Potter’s hands were still tight on his jumper, and he pulled him back, and then his hot hands were around Draco’s face, their foreheads together again, and Potter’s green eyes were staring straight into his grey ones, straight into  _him_ , and Draco was too startled for the moment to look away.

“Oh,” breathed Potter, and Draco didn’t like it, didn’t like his tone, if breathing could even  _have_ a tone. He put his hands on Potter’s wrists (his over-warm skin, his rapid pulse), intending to pull them away from his face, but he felt a weird lack of strength in his fingers, and he couldn’t seem to look away from Potter’s eyes. Draco’s mouth moved, silently, and he wasn’t sure what he was even trying to say.

What was the  _point_ if he couldn’t say anything?

“Oh,” Potter breathed again, as if something was suddenly clear, and he kissed Draco again, but this time it was soft and thorough and impossibly deep, like drowning in a feather bed, and Draco was breathless, he couldn’t remember why his stomach was still all knotted up. Potter leaned him backward, gently, till he was lying on the floor, Potter beside and over him, and Potter was kissing him and kissing him, and easing his trousers and pants down to his knees, and kissing him and kissing him, and Draco’s eyes were closed but he heard the snap of the lid of the lube, and then Potter’s fingers were on him, on his entrance, soft and slick, and gliding into him, and he gasped. (A tiny corner of his mind said, distantly:  _hmm, better than just oil._ ) He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, but he still couldn’t speak, and it made him want to scream.

Potter was biting at Draco’s neck, his fingers moving so slowly, steadily, inside, and his breath was warm in Draco’s ear. “So perfect,” his voice murmured, low and warm and gentle, “you’re so perfect, I just—“ His fingers pressed in. “I want you, I just want—”

“Potter,” Draco tried to say, but his lips only mouthed the word, soundlessly. He wanted to say, don’t lie to me, how can you say that, now, of all times, when I can’t even…. But he arched his back as those fingers twisted and moved, and tried again, without success, to say something:  _Potter._ Or:  _Please._

Potter wouldn’t have seen, he was still leaning over him, pressing him into the floor through the thin carpet, and his mouth was on Draco’s throat, kissing over the lump there, and whispering and whispering, “I always want you, you’re perfect, you’re exactly right, exactly what I need, Draco, always, every time, please, Draco….”

Potter’s fingers had found Draco’s prostate now, and the breath rasped in his throat, and his hips jerked and rolled. Potter kept going, insistently, pressing and moving and fucking him so  _perfectly_ with just his damn fingers, he went on and on till Draco’s throat was raw from panting, till his hands were fisted in Potter’s gorgeous, soft hair, so hard it must surely be hurting him, but he couldn’t loosen his grip, and he couldn’t keep himself from drinking in Potter’s words—he wanted them, he  _needed_ them, even if he shouldn’t, even if he mustn’t, even if he daren’t. Even if they weren’t true. It was too late, it was hopeless, he was fucked for sure.

“Right now,” Potter whispered, so low that Draco felt the words as much as heard them, “Draco, you’re perfect, right now, it doesn’t matter what you think, I  _know_ ; right now, you’re so fucking incredible, and I need you now, I need you always, Draco, please, please, it’s true, please….”

And Draco made a sound at last, and it wasn’t a word or a name, just an inarticulate cry, but for just the tiniest instant, just in his mind, the only sound was  _Harry._ Then he was coming and coming, so hard it almost doubled him over, blind and gasping and shaking, and it seemed to go on forever, and there were tears leaking out of the corners of his closed eyes, dripping down his temples and into his ears, itching a little.

It was nearly a whole minute before he could open his eyes, and feel the fingers of Potter’s free hand stroking Draco’s stomach under his shirt, and see Potter sucking come out of Draco’s jumper.

Part of him wanted to be disgusted, but he was too wrung out to really care. "You're such a freak about this bloody jumper, Potter," he said at last, and this time his voice finally emerged from his throat, though it sounded embarrassingly breathy and not nearly scornful enough.

He saw, through half-closed eyelids, Potter’s mouth twitch a little, saw him shrug and lay his head down on Draco’s chest, felt him push his cheek into the wool, nuzzling.

Draco shut his eyes, put his hands back in Potter’s hair again. He should get up, he should push Potter off and get up off the floor first, it was hard and uncomfortable. Not that he cared. But surely there were things he should be doing.

Maybe in a minute.

 


End file.
